She is not Artemis he is not
Apollo. They wrestle anyway,
earth magnets looking up.
He says, It’s six o’clock it’s dark
I don’t like it.
Go to a pole, she says.
The southern hemisphere — that one.
You want sun? It’s there.
His mind’s hemisphere falls short,
starts its whine about cold and no
farmers markets. Happy with the darker
walk toward solstice, she limps it now,
begins again to light the tableau.